The Courage to Love
by Umbrae Calamitas
Summary: When Starfleet is attacked by an alien seeking revenge and Bones is kidnapped, Jim has to use all of his resources to find his friend and stop the alien from destroying the academy.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **For those of you who are also reading _A Friend in Need_, this fic occurs in the same universe and, chronologically, occurs after chapter four of that story, but not necessarily before or after the fifth or sixth chapters, which are, as of yet, unposted. Those of you who have not read that fanfic yet may gather some enjoyment from it.

This story is not completely written yet, but everything is planned out and it is simply waiting for me to have time enough to work on it. It will not be overly long, and my updates should be no longer than a month apart, but I plan to have them closer together than that, am I able.

I obviously do not own Star Trek, but I'm seriously hoping Abrams blows all of our minds with the upcoming movie, and that things work out as... well. I suppose if you want to know how I hope things'll work out, you'll just have to keep reading my fanfiction. ;)

There is one small note I would like to make. I enjoy reading Star Trek fanfiction immensely, and I had planned to continue reading it but post none of my own, for the longest time. There are two fanfiction authors who changed this. Lyricoloratura is an incredible author who writes some truly _amazing_ fanfiction. Reading her work, particularly _Christmas With the Family_ and _Sestina_ truly made me fall in love with Star Trek fanfiction. It was when I read _And All the King's Men_, by Mijan, that I could no longer resist the pull of the fandom and was forced to put my imaginations to paper. I highly suggest you look up both of these authors and read their incredible work. I would like to thank both of them here for being so amazing, and dedicate this fic to Mijan, for pulling me into the author's side of the fandom with such an amazing and heart-wrenching piece of fanfiction.

_Live long. Live well. Write._

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><p><strong><em>"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do."<em>**

~ Harper Lee, _To Kill a Mockingbird_

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><p><strong>I<strong>

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><p>"Come on, Bones, you know you want to." Jim Kirk grinned at the older man as he latched onto his arm and began to haul him out of the desk chair.<p>

Leonard McCoy released a sound quite reminiscent of a growl, jerking his arm out of Jim's grasp. "Goddammit, Jim! I have an exam to study for!"

"Study later. Get drunk now. Or, when we get to the bar. Come on, Bones! Beer! Food! Hot Orion chicks!"

"Go bug Gaila, Jim. Not all of us can ace our Finals on a ten minute cramming session."

"Flattery, Bones? And we're not even drunk, yet." Jim waggled his eyebrows at the glowering man. "Don't tell me you've been hiding your true feelings all along. Let 'em out. We'll get _funky_."

"Funky, Jim? What _era_ is that from?" He shoved Jim away from him, turning back to the computer.

"Twenty-first century… I think." Jim was relentless, latching onto Leonard's arm again. "Come on, Lenny… baby…"

"I swear to God, Jim, if you call me that one more time-"

"Come get drunk with me and I swear I'll never say it again."

Leonard turned to look at the younger man manhandling him. It wasn't so much that he needed to get drunk with Jim in order to end the use of that insufferable nickname. Leonard was honestly sure that he could stop that himself by one well-placed hypospray. Jim just couldn't understand when someone was joking or telling the truth. All Leonard would really have to do is prove exactly how serious he was about the matter, and that would be the end of it. It might even get the damn kid to leave him alone for once.

So, no, it wasn't the prospect of that miserable nickname being done with that made him give in to Jim's request. It was more the cumulative hours of studying he had done over the course of the past week, along with the hours spent working in the clinic, and the stress of the date coming up that really made him realize that getting drunk sounded positively _fabulous_.

Sometimes Leonard wished he was as smart as his Ph. D claimed he was.

"The Gilded Shuttle, Jim?" Leonard raised a condescending eyebrow at the bar before them. The building was narrow in a way that made it appear to be squeezed in between the buildings on either side of it, but was only one story, which was an odd fashion in comparison to the predominantly two- and three-story buildings on the street. The front was rather bland, as well – no flashing neon signs or glimmering screens declaring the name triumphantly. "The Gilded Shuttle" was written in dark red ink on a wooden plaque above the door, the image of a golden shuttlecraft zooming behind the letters. The steps up into the bar were bordered by old-fashioned wrought iron railings, and the outside of the building itself was, no shitting you, _brick_. The whole appearance of the bar screamed _old, outdated, and cheap_.

"Ah, come on, Bonesy – don't judge a bar by its name." Jim seemed to take his thoughts in from his expression alone – something Leonard had noticed the kid did an awful lot, much to his consternation.

"Jim." Leonard leveled the kid with a patronizing glare.

"All right, so it's the only bar on this block that I haven't been banned from this month." Jim gave him one of his _so sue me_ grins and shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "But seriously, Bones, I hear it's not that bad. And the waitresses – they're topless." He flashed his I'm-A-Sex-Maniac grin at Leonard and pushed through the door to the bar.

Leonard hesitated outside just a moment, before rolling his eyes. "Damnit – if I didn't want a beer so goddamn bad-" But no one was listening to him bitch, so he cut himself off and shoved after Jim, ignoring the look that the bouncer – yes, the bar had an honest-to-god human bouncer standing at the door – gave him as he stalked through the door.

Leonard pushed through a crowd of people, grimacing at the level of noise. It was different from some of the other bars that Jim dragged him to. People weren't jumping around wildly in a rave fashion here, and the music wasn't even loud enough to give him a headache, though it could be easily heard in the background of voices. Surprisingly, though, the majority of sound came from the quantity of people in the bar, which was odd, really, because Jim always seemed to Leonard to be the person that sought out places that were loud _to be loud_. This seemed… unlike him, and Leonard briefly wondered if something was bothering the kid, or if, perhaps, Leonard didn't understand the kid quite as well as he thought he did.

Leonard cast that thought aside, however, in favor of grimacing as an Andorian sashayed by him with a cigarette sticking out of her mouth. He tried not to breathe deeply until she had passed him, but it didn't help a great deal. The smell of smoke overwhelmed even the briefest whiffs of alcohol, making Leonard scowl further in distaste. He always loved to step into a bar and get tipsy on the fumes before he even had a chance to order. The way The Gilded Shuttle smelled, he was more likely to sidle up to the bar with Lung Cancer and Smoker's Cough.

Jim had already seated himself on a stool at the bar and was swiveling back and forth while the bartender had his back turned. Leonard assumed the man was getting Jim's drink ready for him. Moving to the bar, Leonard sat on the stool next to Jim as the other man removed his foot from the bottom rung.

"Worried I'll sit somewhere else?"

Jim grinned at him, blue eyes like roaming hands. "I can't have you sitting by any piece of ass," he said, tongue running over his top teeth.

"You're disgusting."

"I'm _awesome_," Jim said, correcting him. A second guy behind the bar – apparently, The Gilded Shuttle was a popular enough place to require two bartenders – came over to stand before Leonard. He had just opened his mouth to order himself a drink when Jim leaned over in front of him, completely crowding Leonard's personal space, and waved the guy off with a wink. The bartender, younger than his coworker, with olive skin and thin, sleek black hair, grinned back at Jim in a way that could never be misinterpreted as innocent, and wandered off.

"What the hell, Jim?" Leonard focused one of his more ferocious glares on his companion, fueled partly by the fact that the kid didn't even react. "Ya know the only reason I came with ya was to pollute my bloodstream with more alcohol than a goddamn still!" Leonard tried to keep his accent from rolling off his tongue thicker than usual. The fact that he was pissed always seemed to make Jim all the happier, but it was a futile effort. The damn kid just gave him this fucking shit-eating grin and winked. Leonard considered punching him in the head. He really did. He was tired, and cranky, and fucking needed a drink, and Jim was just fucking annoying – dragging him out here and then not letting him order a goddamn-

"Chillax, Bones, before you have an aneurism." Definitely punching the goddamn self-righteous, egocentric idiot in the head- "I ordered you a double shot of whiskey." Jim grinned at him, clearly pleased with himself.

When Leonard continued to glare, however, the grin thinned a little and Leonard actually saw Jim's eyes flit over toward the bartender for a second, his back still turned. "I can call him back if you wanted something different," he said, the bright blue of his eyes dimming to a slightly more normal color. "You always get the double-shot first…"

"You're a pain in the ass, kid." And Leonard did cuff him, just lightly, on the head. He refused to tell himself that he had initially intended to smack the kid a little harder, but simply couldn't bring himself to… for some reason.

He received a grin for his effort – a full-fledged, lecherous smile, complete with flirtatious wink. "You know you like it."

And then the bartender handed them their drinks – _finally_. How slow was the service here? – and Jim had turned to his beer with happy exuberance, swigging down half the bottle with little acclaim. Leonard, too, turned to his drink, the whiskey glass cupped between his fingers, but his mind was on Jim, on that fading smile.

Not for the first time, he had to pull away the part of his brain wired to psycho-analyze, keep himself from taking everything he knew about Jim Kirk and discerning why he threw himself upon the world like a whorish ringmaster commanding a circus of body parts all willing to fuck anything breathing within sight, and possibly a few inanimate objects on hand. And he had to dodge his brain's immediate pitches of ideas, like baseballs at his face, that it could be any number of psychoses or disorders.

Unfortunately, Leonard's attempts at the self-preservation of his mentality usually fell against the force of his own mind and his inherent curiosity. Like many and most times before, the pitches against his mind's eye came hard and fast, slamming into him and bringing with them thoughts that he did not wish to think, and yet could not stop considering.

Kalvin Winsome was Jim's roommate. He was also, much to Leonard's displeasure, a medical student. Unlike Leonard, he wasn't a doctor before he joined Starfleet, but he was determined to become one. Leonard didn't precisely know why. Winsome didn't exactly have a caring disposition toward people. Especially Jim Kirk.

Winsome and Leonard were not friends. Leonard didn't exactly _have_ friends. He had Jim, who was more of a tagalong – some dumb kid from Nowhere, Iowa, who decided that getting puked on meant you were now connected at the hip, or some such nonsense. But no, Leonard wasn't friends with Winsome, so the boy didn't talk to him about Jim, but when one didn't have anyone to talk to, they overheard a lot. It was a rare and quiet day in classes when Winsome wasn't whining to one of his buddies about Jim-fucking-Kirk.

_Bibliomania_. The compulsive collection of books. Leonard had heard, on many a frequent and loud occasion, that Jim Kirk had a collection of books. And not the PADD novels or the comm. disks. Books – with hardback covers and paper pages. Winsome whined and bitched about the musty smell that was now a permanent feature of the dorm room he shared with Jim. About the sound of fluttering pages whenever Jim read casually (_that_ little tidbit of information had been a hard one to swallow – casual reading?). The fact that Jim's half of the room was filled with books. Piled on the desk, stacked in the corners, tossed across the bed – the damn kid _slept_ on them, and Leonard wondered more than once if he didn't live _in_ them, at least more than he did in reality. _Escapism_.

_Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder._ When Winsome wasn't bitching about Jim _owning_ tons of smelly, noisy books, he was whining about Jim stacking them. Rearranging them. Moving them. And never just a few, but _all_ of them, spending hours on any given day, confined to his room, rearranging his books. Moving some from the bed to the desk, from the desk to the floor, from the closet to the bed, from the floor to the boxes he had under his bed. Moving, rearranging, aligning, so that they sat perfectly straight, never a crack between them. Leonard had never been in Jim's room before. Jim didn't invite him over, and if he ever showed up, Jim would always leave with him – "Let's go for a walk, Bones! You're getting a beer gut!" – slipping out of the door before Leonard could force his way inside and see what Jim's room looked like, see these books for himself. And not a variety, Winsome always complained, but every single one looked the same. Not that he'd ever read any of them, or looked at the titles. Once he'd knocked one off the desk by accident and Jim had suffered a complete fit, apparently – skipping classes that day to stay in his dorm and rearrange his books, fitting them together, making sure pages were creased, moving, aligning, perfecting…

_Atychiphobic_. Fear of failure. Jim used to play MeteorTennis. Leonard remembered. When they'd first started, he joined the team, regaling Leonard with tales of their practices, play games, and competitions. He'd never gone to one, the games always scheduled when he was working at the Hospital, or doing homework, or studying for an exam. He knew that the excuses he gave Jim for not coming were always that – excuses. And he knew that Jim had always had that ridiculous pout on his face when he realized that Leonard really didn't care about the game. Though really, why would he want to go see a bunch of people on rocket skates fly around and try to hit a meteor at each other, ultimately slamming into each other and causing all sorts of injuries, which he would end up having to treat anyway when he was at the hospital? But Jim had always gotten over Leonard's rejection, the prospect of the game too exciting, and gone to play.

It was really not so much an actual failure as the captain of the team throwing the game for some ulterior purpose. They never actually did find out what that was, but Jim and Leonard both had their suspicions (and Leonard remembered those nine stitches he had to give the captain the next day. He could have done the gash up in seven, really, but he added two, just for the way that Jim acted that day, after the game, when he'd been kicked off the team. He'd looked more like someone had run over his damn puppy). But Jim had thrown a fit when they lost. The anger had only come later, as one of his teammates told Leonard while he watched over Jim in the hospital, the kid unconscious from the sedative Leonard had pumped into his system. The first emotion the damn kid had reacted with was complete and utter panic, though no one had quite understood why at the time, but he'd had a fit, going into "total freakout mode" as his loyal teammate (what was his name? Tom? Tim? Jim had always referred to him as Tinhead) named it. Tinhead had been the one to calm down the panic, going so far as to walk a stiff and hyperventilating Jim through the team roster until he'd assured the kid that every one of the teammates was still kicking and, asides from the captain, as pissed off as he was. The anger had come, then, of course, and then the sedation at the hospital, so Leonard could use the dermal regenerator to heal the burnt flesh on Jim's hands from when he'd grabbed that damn meteor to throw it at the captain's head.

Fear of failure. Authority issues, too, whether it was fear or hatred, the line was fine and, sometimes, Leonard thought, nonexistent.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder was a definite possibility, though some people really did think that the disorder was more of a fall-back for whatever problems people didn't have a sure-fire diagnosis for. Still, it had some merit, and in some cases, it encapsulated a lot of Jim's issues, much like one of the symptoms of OCD in some cases _was_ Bibliomania, though they were also separate, though clearly connected in this instant, and Leonard really wondered, sometimes, what book it was that Jim was so determined to collect, apparently, every copy of, even though actual books were hard to find and damn expensive.

Jim didn't exactly strike Leonard as a collector of intellectual things, but he knew that Jim was a lot smarter than he let on. He hid himself behind his arrogant attitude, though, and those lecherous looks and sometimes damn-good pickup lines, and that brought up the issue of his sexual appetite, or rather, an addiction to sex, which was incredibly unhealthy and really something that ought to be stopped before Jim's list of issues also included Gonorrhea, Syphilis, or fucking AIDS, though no one had AIDS anymore. It really wouldn't surprise Leonard at all. Honestly, Jim was more like a cat than any man Leonard had ever met before, determined to fuck any piece of ass remotely willing, regardless of sex or species. If anyone could possibly get a disease that had long since been driven to the brink of extinction, it would be James-T-fucking—

"Bones!"

Leonard snapped his head up and around to stare at Jim, who was sitting on the stool next to him, watching him with an amused smile that just didn't quite reach his eyes.

"What?" he asked, because clearly Jim had been expecting a response prior to his snapping that damn nickname, but he had been too wrapped up in his thoughts to hear him.

"I asked if you were going to actually drink your whiskey tonight," Jim said, and he laughed at Leonard, pointing unnecessarily at the shot glass still cupped between his hands. His fingers had left smeary marks on the glass, and he pulled his hands away to wipe them on his jeans, before picking up the shot glass and tossing it back in one go. Setting it back on the bar, he pushed it toward the bartender, who refilled it quickly, while Leonard glanced over at Jim's alcoholic arsenal. The kid was on his third beer, so either Jim was drinking like a camel, or Leonard had been lost for a while.

"Sorry," he murmured, grabbing the refilled shot and tossing it back quickly. The thoughts were trying to resurface, the symptoms of PTSD – _excitability, insomnia _– beating their way to the forefront – _night terrors, difficulty concentrating_ – of his mind and – _angry outbursts, headaches_ – he had to fight to contain them. He quickly swallowed a third shot, his brain hating him for it as a heavy buzzing lit up in his head, making it difficult to think, but the thoughts simmered to a low burn until he could barely hear them, hardly feel their clawing for his attention, and he could ignore that they existed.

"You okay, Bones?" Leonard could see the actual concern in Jim's eyes and he knew it wasn't put on – knew the wrinkle between Jim's eyebrows was real worry for him – and he knew that meant something. He wasn't going to think, though. He wasn't. He was happily buzzing and he planned to get shit-faced drunk until he couldn't see straight and get exams, hospital hours, his upcoming birthday, and Jim-fucking-Kirk off of his overloaded mind.

"As I'm still sober, no." Leonard tapped the shot glass against the bar to signify he needed a refill, and looked back at Jim. There was still a frown between his eyebrows, a concerned gleam in his eyes that Leonard would like very much to ignore, thank you.

"Your face is goin' t' stick like that." Oh look, slurring. That meant the drunkenness was coming, it was coming, she's coming – coming 'round the mountain when she comes, ho ditty…

"Argh, Bones – quit singing!"

Oh… that was out loud? Oops. Leonard downed another shot to shut himself up. Mm. Whiskey. Hooray!

"I'm not singing for ya anymore."

"Good. You suck at it."

"Shuddup. I ain't drunk enough for ya t' be comin' ont' me."

"Well, then – bottom's up, Bonesy!" Jim clinked his bottle of beer against Leonard's shot glass and both of them finished the drink in one go. "I think this is my new favorite bar."

"Meaning ya' goin' t' get kicked out soon, yeah?"

"Oh ye of little faith." Jim's eyes strayed from Leonard's face to somewhere behind him and then he grinned that wide, lecherous grin that held just a hint of some true happiness in it – a look that Leonard only ever saw when Jim caught sight of one person. "Oi, Bones, I'll be right back. I gotta check with my other doctor about a treatment." He flashed his Sexy-Is-My-First-Middle-and-Last-Name grin, winked, and damn near bolted off of his stool and across the bar.

Leonard sniffed his shot glass – it even _smelled _empty, goddamnit – and swiveled on the stool to find Jim. It wasn't hard. Leonard liked to keep something of a low profile when he went out, which meant dressing casual, but Jim seemed to think that the ladies loved Starfleet Red, or so he said. Leonard thought the color was ludicrously obvious – a lot like the British's uniforms some centuries back. He couldn't remember the date. There was some war, lots of people died, and all that shit. Medics were a lot better now. Still not good enough sometimes, though. Sometimes – a lot of times – people still got hurt too bad. People still died.

"Fuck." Leonard considered throwing his shot glass, but he decided not to. "Can I git another one o' these. Ya' slow."

The bartender just nodded at him and filled his glass and another, setting both before him. Leonard may have nodded at him, drunkenly or otherwise, he wasn't quite sure, but the bartender wandered over to another patron, and Leonard tried to decide which to drink first.

"S'hard choice," he murmured. His eyes sought out Jim again. He'd spotted that Orion girl he liked to spend nights with. Gaila, Leonard remembered her name was. She was pretty, he had to admit, if you could look past the green skin. He'd always had a bit of a problem with it. He wasn't a xenophobe, he just liked things homegrown. Homegrown peaches. Homegrown hamburger. Homegrown human.

But there was Jim, his arms around Gaila, hands wandering, lips moving right next to her ear, and she with her hands shamelessly cupping his ass, grinning that too-white smile, laughing, red curls tossing-

"I have to wonder which one you're jealous of."

Leonard jumped, damn near falling off his stool in the process, and turned to find that someone had taken Jim's seat. Greenish-brown skin and eyes with filmy horizontal eyelids that were half-closed around dark, dark eyes – _no iris,_ he remembered, _just big pupils. Nautiliad. From the planet Nautilon VII. _His brain struggled to function beyond the haze of alcohol. The woman… female… the Nautiliad was smiling at him, though he remembered that their expressions always contained lips that curved upward. What was it that he'd learned in Xenobiology? Nautiliad's smiled with their… their hair, that's right. He remembered.

Nautiliad's always looked like they had thick brown dreadlocks – some species style or some such, a lot of people had thought. The "hair" was actually a series of tentacles. If he remembered, there were twenty-seven tentacles in total. Twenty of them reached the maximum length of two and a half feet, two on the sides of their head reaching two and a quarter, and four of them reaching no more than an inch, like bangs on their forehead. The twenty-seventh tentacle was in the middle of their head and connected to all of them. It contained their brain, while their cranium actually held the natural evolutionary apparatus by which they breathed through the tentacles, which were each hollow, but with the exception of the protected twenty-seventh, as hard as steel.

The tentacles moved depending on the mood of the Nautiliad. Pulling backward when angry or afraid, pushing forward when pleased or aroused. As the Nautiliad before Leonard was continually reaching up to push her tentacles out of her face, he had to assume she was as horny as Jim after watching three consecutive porno films.

"Excuse me?" Leonard asked. Hadn't she accused him of being jealous of Jim or something? His brain hurt.

She smiled at him… with her hair. At least he thought so. Maybe she was actually hitting on him… or something. "You look lonely." Oh, definitely hitting on him, with that airy tone of voice. "If you tell me your name, I'll let you scream mine."

Leonard resisted the urge to leave. He wasn't sure why. Jim would probably go home with Gaila and forget all about him, except that Jim _never_ forgot about Leonard. He always let him know if he was leaving and, even if Leonard got left behind at the bar, at least he knew Jim didn't get carted off to an alley and murdered if he was at someone's house having sex and doing whatever unspeakable things Leonard _did not_ want to know about.

"I'll pass, thanks," he said instead, deciding that the original glass was clearly a loyal companion, and he tossed that bit of whiskey back first. He kept it company with the newer glass right after.

"I'm Z'hani." Leonard clicked his teeth together and tried to ignore the Nautiliad. He was feeling less social by the minute. "Come on. At least tell me what you do for a living."

Leonard grimaced and then sighed. "I'm a medic."

"A medic? Sexy. I love a man with a tricorder." Her tentacles had to be blinding her. Maybe he could slip away while she was buried in her hair. "Think I could get a free exam? I have an itch."

"'fraid I'm not on duty, ma'am."

"Aw, that's all right. I don't really want to pay the hospital." She was leaning in real close – too close. "I'm good for it, though, if I can just pay you, Lieutenant."

"Cadet." Damn, if she was going after him because he was a high-ranking officer, maybe it would get him off his back if she knew how low on the chain he was.

"Cadet? You _are_ Starfleet, though?"

_Fuck._ "I'm a medic."

"For Starfleet." When her tongue flicked out to lick his ear, Leonard had had enough. He was out of his seat and stepping away from the freaky alien chick with the mud-mold skin, when he caught sight of her hands. Even webbed fingers could hold a phaser confidently, and if the rolling of her hair was any indication, she was damn-fucking-excited to have it pointed right at Leonard's chest.

"How about that exam, Doctor?"

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><p>"You smell amazing."<p>

"Don't I always?" Gaila asked, her voice little more than a breathy whisper in his ear. She giggled as he nuzzled into the place where her shoulder met her neck, lightly nipping at dark green skin. And she _did_ smell amazing, like always. Hot spices and peppers and something else that he didn't have a name for and he was sure could never be found anywhere except on her homeworld, and Gaila. She smelled just like _Gaila_, and it was an intoxicating familiarity that drew him in.

Gaila wrapped her arms around his back, holding him in a tight embrace. She kept her voice low so no one else could overhear them. "Why are you worried, Jimmy?"

Accepting the nickname she gave him – that only she could use – as the norm, Jim chuffed against her throat. His arms were loosely encircled around her waist, and though his lips were at her neck, he was doing nothing more than breathing against her skin and taking solace in the fact that she was _there_.

Jim had heard her question easily, recognized the tone of her voice that told him she was both slightly concerned and somewhat reproachful about his worries. His lips puckered to kiss her throat softly, and he felt her body move beneath him, hips rolling in that manner she knew he found exceedingly attractive. Her arms tightened around him, though, squeezing to draw his attention and make a point that she expected him to pay her some mind. He sighed softly.

"Jimmy?" Her tone, so gentle and full of that strange, unfamiliar concern, could so easily break him. She was something that he had no experience with. In her movements, there was a gentleness that transcended the normal seductive touches of sexual beings. In her eyes, there was a tender kindness he did not understand. It broke him in the same instant that it built him up, terrified him as it made him braver than any man alive, and silenced him in stunned confusion, even as it propelled him to speak.

Jim exhaled softly against her throat, hot breath seeming to make her spicy scent drift around him, but for a moment, he ignored the draw of it. Instead, his mind replayed her question in his head, bringing to the forefront of his mind the worries that he had been trying, unsuccessfully, to quell. "What if he doesn't like it?"

The sound she made wasn't quite a laugh, but there was a reproving note in it that told him that she felt he was being foolish. He hoped she was right, but in the same moment, he dreaded and feared the idea that his concerns would be justified.

"He's your friend, Jimmy." Her whisper was meant to be reassuring, he knew, but there was a truth in her words that was directly contested by the truth in what she didn't seem to understand, or simply couldn't see.

"But I'm not his." And therein lay the crux of the problem. Jim _liked_ Bones – Leonard McCoy. He liked the man who was sarcastic and grumpy and who had no qualms about telling you exactly what he thought, and damn the consequences. Jim knew quite well that the world, with very, very few exceptions, was made up of liars and people that wandered around wearing masks to hide their true natures. He knew this about the world, just as he knew that he was one of those people wearing the masks – wearing a number of masks, each with its own purpose, carefully crafted to achieve any number of things. But Bones…

Dr. Leonard McCoy was a man of blunt and forceful truths. He was who he was, and you had only to look at him to see it. His was a rare breed of person, and Jim, who had only managed to survive so long by hiding, was drawn to this human creature who was so… aware of himself. In a way that Jim wasn't sure he ever could be aware of _himself_. He knew there was a darkness within him, and he feared it, and he didn't think he could ever bring himself to face that monster that lay inside.

But here was Leonard McCoy, a knight if ever one existed, conqueror of the demons of himself to the point that he was… at peace with who he was. And Jim, who had so few constants in his life, so few things that were _true_, wanted this man, this creature of blunt and callous honesty, to be a part of his life. And so Jim would call the man his buddy, his pal, his friend, his Bones, but he was not so foolish as to think the man requited the gesture. Bones barely tolerated this annoying kid, hardly more than a teenager and far more immature than himself. Bones didn't like having Jim around, pestering him, butting into his life, dragging him off to get drunk and flirt with overzealous women, shameless men, and the occasional tentacled alien. Jim was little more than an aggravating tag-a-long – a cheeky child who decided to impose himself upon Leonard McCoy's existence after one chance meeting in a shuttle and one unfortunate and embarrassing incident wherein the good doctor was sobered abruptly by the oral ejection of all alcohol and everything he had recently eaten, much thanks to an undefeatable phobia.

So, no, Jim was not foolish enough to think that his regard for Leonard McCoy as a friend was a reciprocated gesture, and that's what worried him. The fact that he knew Bones' birthday was coming up – just five days away – was not something that he had broadcast to the doctor. So, Jim's plans to get Bones a present that had taken a great deal of time, planning, and shameless manipulation to execute was not something that the man was likely to suspect, at all. Ever.

And if it was something that would come as a complete surprise, and be something so completely personal as what Jim had planned – and only came to know from hacking Bones' files – could he really expect that the doctor would be appreciative of what amounted to a complete breach of privacy?

Jim closed his eyes and sighed again. He could feel Gaila's fingers moving in gentle circles on his back, trying to ease out the tension that had built there. They'd had this discussion before, and Jim knew her stance on this. More than once, she had commented upon what she referred to as his "swan dive into love," claiming that he was not one who loved cautiously, though Jim had fought her presumptions viciously, that he in any way, shape, or form _loved_ Leonard McCoy.

He did, though. He loved the man who was so blunt and callous in his words as to make professors cringe. It wasn't a romantic type of love, he recognized, and he knew that Gaila hadn't meant it as such. Love was, Jim understood, a caring that transcended the basic acquaintances that he normally filled his life with. Love was more in its simple, solitary existence than any number of sexual encounters could be. It was something that James T. Kirk fought to keep well and truly _out_ of his life.

And it was something that he failed miserably at avoiding.

"Give it time, Jimmy," Gaila whispered gently into his ear, and there was no sexual rise from what would normally be a sensual gesture, the feel of her warm breath ghosting over his skin. Her words were meant to calm and reassure, and he took strength from them, as she had hoped and intended. "Few love so easily as you." The words were familiar – uttered times before when he had revealed his concerns and his heart to her, in a way that he had to no other. It came easily, this ability to talk to her, and it hadn't taken him long to understand why. He and Gaila were very much alike.

They knew each other because they knew themselves, at least some part of themselves, and it was this easy understanding of pain and surviving when one had _every reason_ to give up that made them so close, and made her words so precious to him, and him so willing to hear them.

Jim opened his mouth to say something to her – perhaps to thank her for her patient understanding, as he had done before – when he was interrupted. The sounds, at first, didn't register to him in the setting. Only the screams of frightened people and the clamor that arose from rushing feet and glass that broke in chaos made its way through his mind to some form of comprehension. He could feel Gaila's fingers, digging into the flesh of his arms in fear, as they both looked around in confusion, and then the other sounds that had eluded him, the cause of the chaos, suddenly registered.

The rushing snap and sizzle of phaser fire was out of place in the bar. It didn't belong, just like the explosive echo of sound and the flames that burst forth from the far corner of the bar, when the bomb went off.

Jim and Gaila were thrown apart, arms ripped from around the others body by the concussive force of the eruption and the table, which slammed hard into the both of them. Jim rolled initially, on reflex, catching his feet again, lights dancing wildly in his eyes as he sought of Gaila's green form in the growing insanity. The pain that exploded in his right side, however, carried his staggering movement to his feet too far over, and he found himself hitting the ground with a grunt of pain, balance lost.

He rolled over onto his stomach, blue eyes instinctively scanning the chaos for signs of what had precipitated this insanity. He could not find Gaila amidst the flicker of lights and the battered bar lit by flames, but his eyes did settle on someone else who meant a great deal to him.

Across the bar, Jim caught sight of Leonard McCoy, as the man put up a vicious fight. An alien hand was wrapped around his stomach, the other holding his arms behind his back, and Jim could see the tentacles of the Nautiliad's head pulled back taut in what he might assume was aggravation. Bones was struggling fiercely, kicking wildly and jerking against the alien's hold. Jim had a brief moment of thought where he could see how Bones might be likened to a stallion – unbreakable and wild. Then that thought was gone, as it became clear that however much he fought, Bones couldn't win against the Nautiliad's hold.

Jim tried to force himself to his feet, pushing off of the ground and ignoring the scratches across his arms or the way his grimace pulled strangely at his face. He managed to make it to his feet and staggered forward a step before the pain in his right shoulder exploded like a firecracker, making its disapproval with his current actions absolutely clear. Jim couldn't hold back the cry of pain that pulled from his throat, this type of pain familiar in the way that all pain was, but new in a fashion that told him that whatever he had done, this was a first.

Jim's knees buckled at the onslaught that tore through him and he hit down hard on his knees, catching himself on his left arm before he could slam fully into the ground. He breathed in smoke-filled, sucking gasps of air through his teeth as he looked up to find Bones, hoping the man had managed to fight off the alien stealing him away.

He managed the briefest of glimpses toward the duo, as the Nautiliad successfully managed to pull Bones out the door, clearly refusing any idea of releasing him. Jim had the smallest of moments in which he was able to wonder where she intended to take his friend, what she intended to do to him, and how he could possibly get Bones out of it.

Then he realized, with some belated discomfort, that he wouldn't be saving anyone, least of all Bones.

And then the pain, which he had managed to push off just briefly, flared again, and the strength in Jim's arm failed him. He crumbled beneath himself, collapsing flat to the floor with a cry as his shoulder burned with agony, and let darkness steal him away with a sob of relief.

**Author's Note: **Much thanks for reading. I look forward to any and all comments and questions. The second chapter should be up soon. As always,

_Live long. Live well. Write. Read. Dream. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **I received so many Story Alerts from the first chapter - I was so thrilled that people enjoyed it so much. Thank you to everyone who read the fic, and a special thank you to those who reviewed. I hope you will enjoy the second chapter as much as you did the first, and I hope you will all be kind and leave me a review. Thank you, have a lovely weekend, and, as always,

_Live long. Live well. Write. Read. Dream. _

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><p><em><strong>"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage." <strong>_

~ Lao Tzu

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><p><strong>II<strong>

The sound of the medical transport's siren called Leonard McCoy's attention back from where it had been wandering toward desperation. He was standing outside of the bar where the explosion had taken place, waiting for the transport to arrive. He was trying to get the images of fire and burning bodies and phasers piercing flesh out of his head, but it wouldn't quite leave.

He didn't recognize the faces of the people who moved past him – couldn't quite concentrate on anything but their grim expressions as they moved in and out of the bar, using emergency transporter signals to send some of the more dire patients directly to the medical facility, and loading up the others. Leonard waited as they loaded up those who had been injured, and startled briefly when someone grabbed his arm forcefully, pulling him to the transport vehicle. He had been injured by the Nautiliad and needed medical attention, but he would be all right. There were others worse off than he was.

The ride to the hospital seemed to fly by in seconds, and he wondered if he had fallen asleep or passed out in the vehicle, but no one said anything. He was pulled from the vehicle, the stern treatment oddly not harming the burns on his skin, as someone held fast to his arm and led him into the hospital. People in stretchers were rushed past him, and though many split off and went other directions or seemed to disappear when he wasn't looking, there was always one right beside him. Too many people had been injured… and where was Jim?

"Easy, Doctor McCoy – let me fix this up."

"No, now hold on a minute, I'm fine – where the hell is Jim?"

"Jim, sir?" The doctor working on him didn't stop in his efforts to take off Leonard's shirt, and he rolled his eyes.

"Jim— James Kirk. He was at the bar with me. Was he brought in on a stretcher?"

"Yes, sir, I believe so."

"You _believe_ _so_?" When the man didn't reply, Leonard jerked away from th steady hands sewing a gash closed on his arm. "Look, I'm glad ya all willin' to help me out, but there are people hurt a lot worse than I am, so go help them and jus' tell me where Jim's a'."

"He's in surgery, Doctor McCoy, but you really must let me fix you up before you leave."

"I'm fine!" he snapped, jumping off of the table and heading for the door. "Go help someone who needs ya. Damn fool," he muttered.

The operating room had two nurses in it when he arrived, and Leonard shivered when he stepped into the room. Jim was lying on a gurney in the middle of the room, his skin pale, eyes closed. He was bare-chested, with a sheet pulled up to just below his ribcage. There were cuts and scrapes over his arms and chest, a few scratches on his face, and burn marks all down his left side, like he had been standing to the right of the bomb when it went off. The white sheets on which he lay were turning a prominent crimson from the blood running from a gaping wound on his right shoulder. He seemed to be growing paler as every second passed.

"Doctor McCoy," the one nurse greeted. Beyond the mask she wore, McCoy could recognize the emerald-green eyes of Nurse O'Shal, who he frequently, and rather reluctantly, worked with on a regular basis. Regardless of his personal opinion of her, he was rather glad to see a familiar face. He couldn't quite focus on who the other nurse was. His eyes kept straying back to Jim, blood pooling beneath him.

"Any idea what happened?" Leonard asked, trying hard to keep his tone professional as he pulled on a pair of gloves.

"He was caught in an explosion," the nameless nurse said in a sweet voice. "Asides from the burns and scratches, something sharp struck his shoulder and severed an artery. He's bleeding out."

This was all said with the clinical detachment of someone who had taken the job for the money. Leonard wished he could focus on the nurse's face so he could remember to file a serious recommendation to have her fired, but he couldn't look away from Jim.

"I ca' see he's bleedin' out," he snapped at her instead. "Why haven't ya used a stabilizer t' stop the bleedin'?"

"His artery has been severed, Doctor. A stabilizer would merely delay the inevitable. Triage would demand that we focus on patients with a better survival rate and this patient be left to God."

"This patient has a name, Nurse! An' I ain't gon' leave 'im t' God or any'un else! Ya don't like I', ya ca' clear out!"

A snarl still on his face, Leonard turned back to Jim, hands moving to grab the necessary tools. O'Shal was there, then, silent as she always was around him, but getting the stabilizer and setting it up to stop the bleeding from Jim's wound. It should have been put there already, and Leonard didn't have it in him to thank the nurse for something she should have already done – something that could make a difference.

The tools he held quivered in his fingers as he sought the severed artery, to fix them in place and heal them. His hands never shook, and he wondered now at how they trembled, quivering at the ends of his arms. Still, he worked despite the shuddering, fitting the artery together, using a regenerator – did it matter which one, so long as it worked? – to speed the healing of the artery, sucking the blood out of the wound, and then using a dermal regenerator to heal the skin of the wound.

Except, Leonard hands were still shaking, and there was a scalpel in his hands – why was there a scalpel in his hands – and he was trying to cut out something from Jim's wound; a piece of whatever had sliced up his shoulder was still imbedded in the wound. But his hands were shaking and the scalpel wasn't steady, and then the tiny blade, so small but so, so sharp, sliced through that same artery, and then there was blood, new blood, fresh blood, and it was all over. Jim was bleeding all over the gurney and the sheets and he was white, so white, white as the sheets, and he wouldn't stop bleeding and Leonard could hear from somewhere the steady beeping of a heart monitor, only it seemed to be blaring together, the beeping one long drone of steady sound, in his mind one long, steady line of red sound and Leonard couldn't understand where the droning noise was coming from, because Jim was right here, Jim was fine, Leonard was taking care of him and that meant Jim would be fine, except that his artery was severed and there was blood blood blood and Jim wasn't fine, he was dead, and there was blood, and Leonard couldn't stop shaking quivering shuddering—

Leonard snapped awake with a cry, a name on his lips. Shivering, the doctor rolled over on the cold floor and threw up whatever he had eaten at the bar.

He coughed, trying to hold himself up on weak arms, spitting the foul taste of bile from his mouth, as he shivered violently.

It had been a dream... just a dream. He hadn't been fixing Jim up at the hospital – at least not this time.

Leonard looked down at his hands, only to find that he couldn't see them. In fact, he realized, as he lifted his head and looked around him, he couldn't see anything. There was no way to tell, of course, whether he was blind or it was just ridiculously dark, but Leonard was more inclined to think the latter, if only to preserve his sanity. He shivered again. He was cold, goosebumps running up and down both his arms and legs. He could feel his hair, wet and flopping against the back of his neck, water trickling down his back.

Pushing himself to his feet unsteadily, he felt the walls of… wherever he was. They were smooth, and gave a hollow banging echo when he rapped his knuckles against them. The sound seemed to go up a long ways, as though it were an incredibly tall building. Leonard rapped his knuckles against the wall again, louder this time.

"HEY!" he yelled, his voice echoing loudly against his own ears. "HEY—" he racked his brain for the Nautiliad's name. "—Z'HANI! LET ME OUT OF HERE!" Wherever "here" was, of course. This cold, wet, dark place that he most certainly did _not_ want to be in. He didn't remember being brought here. In fact, he didn't remember a whole lot after they had left the bar.

Of course, his last memories of the bar itself had likely been the cause of that all-too-real nightmare.

The phaser held low enough to be inconspicuous had stilled him, kept him from leaving, and made him complacent. The surprise of having a weapon pulled on him had kept him from moving right away, when the Nautiliad turned suddenly and fired at the bartender. Even now, Leonard could recall the trajectory of the gun's fire. The bartender had been killed instantly, and Z'hani's movements had triggered those who had come with her, as phaser fire had briefly opened up in the bar, before the bomb had gone off.

Leonard remembered how Z'hani had moved – swimming over the ground like liquid, as fast as a river, and wrapping arms too strong around his torso and bodily hauling him toward the door. He had fought her, oh, how he had fought. When he'd realized that trying to pry her arms off of him was useless, he'd gone to attempting to throw himself out of her grasp and kick her in the shins at the same time. It was during one of these attempts that he'd looked up and, somehow, of all people in the bar, locked his eyes on Jim.

Cuts and scratches adorned the young man's face, and pain radiated in those neon blue eyes that stood out, bluer than any eyes the doctor had seen before. Jim's shirt was torn, scrapes and what looked like burns on his arm, cuts through the shirt on his chest, and one long gash on his right arm, deep and bleeding heavily.

He had gotten a glimpse of the younger man as Jim pushed himself to his feet, and saw his face screw up in pain, his mouth open in a cry that couldn't be heard over the chaos in the room, just before the young man slammed to his knees and fell forward. Leonard remembered yelling out Jim's name, sudden fear rushing through him, a need to go to his friend – his _friend_ – and make sure that he was all right. Only the arms of the Nautiliad tightened around him, and when one reached up to clap over his mouth, Leonard sank his teeth into the webbed hand, and he remembered the acidic taste of blue blood on his tongue as his bit harder and harder.

And then pain exploded behind his eyes as something knuckled and heavy struck him in the side of the head, and darkness had claimed him into the Nautiliad's whim and the darkness of a nightmare.

Leonard frowned into the darkness, lingering as it intended to. He tried to let the thought slide, but the idea of him being unable to see… doctors couldn't be blind, and Leonard McCoy was a _doctor_, damnit.

But when he wasn't thinking about the possibility of being blind, his thoughts wandered back to Jim. Jim, who he had seen collapse in pain, bleeding from what his nightmarish mind had proclaimed was a severed artery. Thankfully, Leonard's brain was pointing out to him the various reasons why it was probably _not_ a severed artery, but it had still been a badly-bleeding wound. A bomb had still gone off in the building. There had still been people, with guns, in that bar!

Leonard leaned against the wall and slid down into a sitting position, ignoring the cold water that soaked into his jeans. He ran a hand over his face, weary and worried. Damnit, he'd never say it to him, but Leonard liked Jim! That kid, annoying as fuck as he was, was one of the few people in his life that Leonard could honestly call his friend. The only problem was that he was a damn coward when it came to admitting it, always worried about being hurt in the end, and he had yet to tell the kid that he cared about him, too. He had yet to actually let Jim know that he was his _friend_.

He thought back to earlier that night, or by now it might have been yesterday. When he had arrived at the bar and had snapped at Jim for telling the waiter that Leonard didn't need to order anything. He'd wanted a drink, because things just weren't going well – Finals were always hard and it was a stressful time for him, especially since they always seemed to fall right around his birthday, and that was never an easy time, stuck at the academy in San Francisco and not able to see his daughter. He'd wanted a glass of whiskey, and he'd snapped at Jim for not letting him order it, only to find out that the kid already had ordered it, because _of course_ he knew what Leonard drank. Leonard was finding out, more every day, that Jim paid a lot of attention to the little things when it concerned other people. A lot more than people usually did.

And Leonard remembered the look on Jim's face when he had continued to glare at him. The dimming of his eyes from that radioactive blue, the smile that wilted like a dying flower from his face, the happiness fading from his eyes, and then, the worst part – that mask going up, with the fake smile that most people would fall for, the one that could swoon a girl and stop a murderer and make a professor reconsider a grade. It was the smile that never touched Jim's eyes, but the one that almost everyone seemed to fall for. Almost.

Leonard was becoming increasingly aware of that smile. He was, sadly, becoming more and more acquainted with the consistency of it, realizing that Jim hid behind that false grin too damn much. He'd tried to tell himself that he didn't know why he hadn't hit Jim as hard as he intended, but lying to himself wouldn't get him anywhere. That damn kid was hurting, and you didn't have to be a doctor to see that; you just had to care.

And Leonard McCoy cared a lot about Jim Kirk. Too damn much, in fact.

Fuck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: **Many thanks to all of my readers and a special thanks to those that reviewed. I'm glad to see that people are enjoying the fic so far and I always look forward to hearing what people think. As it has been expressed to me that while Bones and Jim together are incredibly fun to read about, Bones, Jim, and Spock is even better. I would have to agree and, with much gratitude and anticipation of my own, ask that you stick with me a while. I have a great many fic ideas for this fandom in my mind, and you'll eventually find us on the Enterprise.

For now, however, enjoy some more Jim and Bones and their adventures and growing friendship. And, as always,

_Live long. Live well. Write. Read. Dream._

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><p><strong><em>"Anyone can give up, it's the easiest thing in the world to do. But to hold it together when everyone else would understand if you fell apart, that's true strength."<em>**

_~ unknown_

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><p><strong>III<strong>

* * *

><p>Jim's sense of smell returned before anything else, and his consciousness arose with the knowledge that he was in the hospital, the scent of antiseptic heavy in his nostrils. A moment later, his hearing returned, and the sounds of chaos that often permeated the walls of such a place came easily to his ears.<p>

Opening his eyes, he squinted at the lights above him, turning his head to look around. He was lying on a gurney in the middle of a room filled with other people, both conscious and not. He glanced across the room, offering a cursory glance to the beds. For the most part, it appeared that everyone that he could see was hurt, but not immediately so.

The sounds of beeping machines and doctors talking and rushing around out of sight beyond the room he was in told Jim that the people who were injured more than he were being cared for first. _Triage_. Jim knew the word from different mediums, but the more recent was Bones, who was not unfamiliar with the term even before joining Starfleet. He was, after all, a doctor – an accomplished one long before he'd set foot upon that shuttle. Jim thought about that day in Bones' dorm, when the doctor had been trying to study and Jim simply kept pestering him. It was so much less painful to think of that day than any of the other days where he learned what—

Jim's memories of recent events came back with an abruptness that was like an injection of ice straight down his spine. He could not stop the shudder that rippled through his body, the cold feeling that settled somewhere between his stomach and his heart, and the pain, which he had been ignoring up to this point in favor of giving all of his attention to his senses, came back with the force of a brick wall to the face.

Jim's shoulder lit up with an explosion of pain that made him gasp for breath, his eyes widening. The burning sensation stretched down his arm, tempered at his elbow. Jim shut his eyes, willing the pain to _leave_. He didn't need it. It wasn't doing him any good. Let it return when he didn't have other things to worry about. Other _people_.

Because he had been thinking about Bones, and he remembered. He could see, as easily as if they were both before him now, Bones kicking out in an attempt to escape the Nautiliad, struggling against a hold that he would not be able to break.

Jim had been at Starfleet for almost a year and a half. Like others who were on the Command Track, he was required to take courses that covered all manner of subjects, so that when he finally became the captain of a starship, he would know enough in every area that he could be a little useful anywhere. One of the classes that Jim enjoyed the most was Xenobiology; a class that was as interesting as it was easy for him. One of the best parts was that he learned about various different species; where they came from, what made them strong, and what other species had on them. Nautiliads were a species covered somewhat more extensively than others, because the problems they were having on their home planet were currently being looked at by Starfleet, in attempts to help them.

Nautilon VII was a planet of more than ninety percent water. Being humanoids that lived primarily in the water, but spent two months out of a Terran calendar year on dry land, they had adaptable breathing organs that were capable of morphing between lungs and gills, allowing them to breathe air or filter oxygen from the water. Because they spent the majority of their time in the water, the Nautiliads had a great amount of upper body strength. No matter how much Bones had struggled, he never would have been able to break loose from the hold of a creature three times as strong as he was.

Meaning that wherever they had taken Bones, he was likely still there – the captive to some… rebel group, or something.

It hadn't been fear predominantly on Bones' face. Jim remembered that distinctly, somehow – probably would have recalled it even if the image of Bones struggling against the Nautiliad's hold hadn't been burned against the backs of his eyelids. It had been a look of anger on the doctor's face, and one of aggravation and disgust, before any of the fear had managed to slip through. That, for some reason, gave Jim hope. Jim, who knew only as much about Leonard H. McCoy as one person could learn about another within the time they'd known each other. But Bones was a fighter – that was clear. If he wasn't, he wouldn't have been on that shuttlecraft where the two had met, fighting his aviaphobia to be something, when someone clearly expected Leonard McCoy to simply disappear.

Jim grimaced, not so much at the thought of Bones' ex-wife as at the pain that returned full-force to his shoulder as he forced himself into a sitting position. Once he had regained his breath, he looked down to take in the damage to the rest of his body.

His cadet uniform was gone, replaced with a pair of loose, dark blue pants that looked like the uniforms some of the lower ranked nurses wore in the hospitals. His chest was bare, and his right shoulder had been wrapped in white gauze that was taped to his skin. A temporary treatment, he assumed – something done to sterilize and protect the wound, while the more critical patients were dealt with first. If he stayed where he was, eventually someone would likely fix up his arm with a dermal regenerator, and he'd be as good as new.

But Jim wasn't sticking around to wait.

Pushing off the table, he stumbled slightly when his feet took the full weight of his body. His knees tried to buckle beneath him, but Jim locked his legs and leaned against the bed until he felt he had his bearings. His entire body ached, no doubt from having been thrown across the bar when the bomb went off. His shoulder was burning continuously now and he could feel a variety of nicks and scratches on his legs, hidden beneath the scrubs. A few scratches on his chest contrasted nicely with the bruises that were beginning to form, and Jim knew he would need to find a shirt in order to look less conspicuous. He glanced down at his bare feet. _And some shoes. _

The need to leave the hospital, to escape before he could be stopped, was palpable. Jim needed to find Bones, to get the man away from the crazy bitch who had kidnapped him. But there was another name rambling around in his head, another friend who he needed to make sure was all right.

_Gaila. _

Jim moved quickly through the room, looking at the people lying on the beds. Some were awake and returned his gaze, while others continued to stare off into the distance. More than half of them were asleep or unconscious, and Jim briefly wondered how many of them had been sedated, but it wasn't important. He was looking for Gaila. He was looking for evergreen skin and hair the color of papaya. _Gaila. _

Jim almost ran past her, not expecting there to be a blanket pulled up to her chin. He stumbled to a stop beside the gurney she was lying on and just stared down at her for a moment, at once grateful she was out here, in this room, and hating that she was being forced to wait for treatment. But she was okay – she must be, if they weren't rushing to treat her. She _must_ be.

Jim reached out and grasped the hem of the blanket, pulling it down slowly in case the Orion wasn't clothed underneath. He needn't have worried; she was dressed in scrubs, just as he was, and Jim lowered the blanket further and lifted the shirt of the uniform she had been dressed in.

His hands shook when he caught sight of the bruises, a muddy brown against her dark green skin. There was a wound on her right side, above her hip, which had bled lightly into the bandage over it, and a few light burns on her legs, as he looked. But she seemed to be okay, and once the doctors got a look at her, she'd be perfectly fine. She would.

Jim sighed softly, pulling the blanket back up over her form with shaky hands. He wished he knew if his tremors were from anger or fear; anger he could understand, but fear was unforgivable. He didn't have time for fear.

He touched her hand with an unsteady hand. Soft, tight curls folded under his fingers, and he trailed his hand down her fire-orange hair for a moment, staring at her face.

Her eyes were closed, her face relaxed in sleep – unconsciousness. Her thick lips – so soft, he knew – were opened slightly as she breathed, the air hissing between them in that gentle habit she had of nearly whistling in slumber. He swallowed the thick lump in his throat as he watched her, his eyes trailing over every aspect of her face.

The tips of his fingers brushed against the smooth flesh of her forehead and curled up in her hair. He rested his hand there for just a moment, before he sighed softly, relieved to know that she was all right, but sad to leave her side before he could gain a deeper assurance from her consciousness. But Jim wouldn't leave Bones to fend for himself.

Jim was reassured with the knowledge that Gaila was here, alive, and she would be taken care of, and although he still wanted to stay with her, he knew he could leave, and he knew he had to. Slipping out of the room, he weaved his way through the hospital, dodging the eyes of hospital staff and patients alike, finding a supply closet that held extra scrubs for the doctors, and then making his way out of the hospital and into the cold night air.

Now began the more difficult search for Doctor Leonard H. McCoy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Many thanks to all who read this fic, and supreme thanks to those that reviewed - you truly make my day. I hope everyone enjoys this chapter, and I look forward to the response to it. As always,

_Live long. Live well. Write. Read. Dream. _

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><p><strong><em>"Whatever course you decide upon, there is always someone to tell you that you are wrong. There are always difficulties arising which tempt you to believe that your critics are right. To map out a course of action and follow it to an end requires courage."<em>**

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

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><p><strong>IV<strong>

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><p>The darkness was blinding.<p>

Or perhaps it was just him.

The thoughts were back; the fears of having been blinded by the strike to the head – it wouldn't have been difficult to do, the human brain was such a fragile thing. If the Nautiliad – Z'hani. Z'hani was her name. – had struck him just right on the head, she could have blinded him. The room he was in could be as bright as the goddamn sun, but it wouldn't make much difference to him if his eyes didn't work anymore. And if his eyes didn't work, he couldn't be a doctor, and if he wasn't a doctor, there wasn't really a reason for him to stick around this god-forsaken world. And he didn't mean the planet.

Leonard clenched and unclenched his fingers, trying to rid them of the stiffness that had gathered there. It was a futile effort, he knew; the cold had stiffened his whole body, and distantly, he was aware of the fact that he had stopped shivering some time ago. He was still cold, but that wouldn't last long. He was also wet, and eventually, it would start to feel warm.

_Hypothermia._ Leonard released a bitter laugh._ I've joined Starfleet in a gesture of suicide, ridden in too-damn-many shuttlecrafts, and planned on serving aboard a starship, and I'm going to die of Hypothermia._

Never let it be said that life had a soft spot for Leonard McCoy. He rather thought some deity hoped to do him in. He'd like to know which one. He'd tell them to go fuck themselves.

It was a hollow laugh, the edges tinged with bitterness, that ripped from Leonard's throat. It echoed around the room, ricocheting back to his ears, as though the darkness, too, was laughing at him. He wouldn't have been surprised.

The screech of metal on metal met the end of his laughter, the echo riding into the new sound. Leonard winced at the bright light that suddenly erupted through a crack in the wall as a door opened, turning his head to the side to try and escape the burning sensation that the light cause in his eyes. He blinked into the darkness beneath him and tried to lift up his head to see who was there, where he was, what was coming. A moment later, the door was shut tightly, and all light faded, but he could hear someone else breathing in the room with him.

"Good morning, Doctor."

It was Z'hani.

Involuntarily, the doctor's jaw clenched together and he was aware of the sensation of anger building up within him, like water boiling to a point where it risked spilling over the edges of a pan. His eyes pierced the darkness, seeing nothing, but glaring nonetheless.

There was a soft laugh that echoed around him, so different from the bitter one he had released not long before. The sound was alien – tinkling in a natural echo, like chimes under water. It would have been beautiful had it come from someone else – someone who hadn't kidnapped him and locked him in a dark, cold, wet room for God knows how long.

"Silence, Doctor?" Z'hani asked, her voice filled with humor. "I didn't take you for the type."

"You took me fo' somethin'," Leonard growled, eyes desperately trying to find her amidst the darkness. Her voice echoed back at him in such a way that he could not tell if she were even still standing in front of him, and not hovering somewhere above his head. Only knowledge of her species told him that she was somewhere in front of him, but he wasn't comforted by that. He found himself bothered still more by knowing that she was so close, but being unable to see her.

"Indeed I did, Doctor. Indeed I did."

There was silence for a long moment, until she realized that he had no intention of speaking if he could hold his tongue. It didn't seem to bother her, if her good-natured tone was anything to go by.

"I do hope you're finding your accommodations to be sufficient. I must apologize for the lack of proper lighting, but this building has been out of use for a rather long time. We didn't have time for it to be evaluated before you were brought here. I hope you understand."

Leonard couldn't quite decide if the woman was mocking him, or if she was as serious as she sounded. She had locked him in a building that, according to her, hadn't been used in years, and she was asking him to understand that the lighting wasn't _up to par?_ Leonard had been trying very hard to stay quiet and not give her anything, but he had honestly never been the type.

"What the _hell_ is wrong with you?" He really didn't mean to yell that loudly, and winced as his voice echoed back at him accusingly.

"I don't know. You're the doctor – you tell me."

Oh. Oh, she was _definitely_ mocking him, and that made it worse. If she had somehow worked out this elaborate plan with gunmen and a bomb and kidnapping him, while having some sort of insanity complex that caused it, he might have been a little lenient. But no, she hadn't kidnapped him because she was in love with him (that might sound farfetched, but he'd had it almost happen to him once before and wouldn't have been all that surprised if it came around again), or because she thought he somehow knew all of the secrets of the universe, or because she needed his (not really) superior skills as a doctor. No, he had done so for some ulterior purpose, and now he was just _pissed_.

"Why am I here?"

"Why, because I brought you here, Doctor. Don't you remember?" A growl rumbled out of his throat, but she only laughed those underwater chimes at him again. "I see you're not interested in playing. Very well. Perhaps a story, then, as you'd prefer."

He could hear her moving. The water on the floor of whatever building he was in seemed to have gotten a little deeper throughout the time he had spent here, and he could hear the swishing of it and feel it lapping against his hips and ankles, as she moved about.

"Once upon a time, Doctor, there was a little girl who lived on Nautilon VII. She was just a child when the Federation was called and asked to help negotiate a treaty between two leaders of her planet, to help heal her planet from the damage done to it by one of the peoples who lived there. She was told by those around her that the Federation would send a ship – a crew – to help her people, and that she would get to meet a Starfleet Captain, and she was so excited – so excited. And she anxiously awaited that day.

"She awaited that day for years, Doctor, knowing that someday soon, the Federation would send someone to help her people. And she was still just a child by the standards of her people when her mother, who had loved her so, so much, died because of the poison in the waters of Nautilon VII. She was still just a child when she was made an orphan, and when she realized that no one would help her people, Doctor. No one was going to come and save her, because no one cared. The Federation _didn't care about her_."

Leonard's hands clenched in the water, his entire body tensing. The hissing anger that came out in her words was like a warning before an attack, but no matter where he looked, he could not see her. He didn't know where she would come from, and his body nearly quivered from the adrenaline running through it, as it waited for him to get his chance to run.

"The Federation didn't come for my people, Doctor, because they don't care about anyone. Nautilon VII is a world that has little to offer them, so they have no use for us. So they don't give _a shit_ about us.

"And the same goes for you."

She was moving again, the water rippling around him, the sound of her legs swishing through it ringing in his ears. "I've brought you here, Doctor, because you're a medic, for Starfleet. I've brought you here, because I want to show you the truth of the _corporation_ you've whored yourself out to. You're just one person, just one doctor, and you don't mean shit to them. And I'm going to prove it to you."

Cold fingers to the skin of his forehead made Leonard jerk away, slamming the back of his head against the wall behind him. He grimaced and suppressed a groan of pain, eyes glaring in front of him. She was right there – right there.

"I lost my faith in the Federation and Starfleet as a child, Doctor. I lost _everything_ as a child. The waters of Nautilon VII are tainted, and because of that, the Nautiliad Council wishes for a new start – a fresh beginning. The Federation doesn't wish to help someone who has nothing to offer them – they only help when they can get something in return. They're tainted by the greed they harbor. These corrupt things must be removed, drained, so that new, fresh materials can be replaced."

Leonard felt his heart pounding in his chest. Was she really suggesting what he thought she was? Removing the Federation? At its core, the Federation's basis was Starfleet Academy, and considering how organized the attack on the bar had been, he had little doubt Z'hani could perform the same type upon the Academy. And if she did that…

"You may be wondering why I chose you, Doctor."

_Chose me for _what_, though?_

"There was nothing extraordinary or even planned about my decision – I merely needed to pick someone, anyone, from Starfleet. You see, I know that some people would agree with me. Some people would understand that the Federation is nothing more than an organization out for itself. I'm a reasonable person, Doctor, and I don't wish to destroy the lives of innocents – especially those who know and are willing to accept the truth.

"When I saw you there at the bar, I knew you would be the right one to pick. You looked so worn out, so downtrodden – as though you'd been working so hard for something you didn't believe in; something that would never really pay you back in the end. And I knew you had to be in Starfleet, working for these corrupt businessmen and _hating_ it. I knew you would be the right choice, and I'm still confident now, that you will help me."

Movement again, and then her hands were on him. Leonard tried to pull away, but a strong hand clamped down hard on his shoulders, in a gesture too friendly for what this woman was to him – enemy, kidnapper, sexual harasser—

"I know you agree with me, Doctor. I know you do. All I need you to do is tell me who else in Starfleet agrees that the Federation is corrupt – who else will join me – and I will spare them."

_Spare them. _"From what?" Leonard asked tightly, still trying to squirm out of her grasp.

"The cleansing, Doctor. The _cleansing_." He could almost see the tentacles on her head roiling forward in glee – he could hear the excitement in her voice. "At noon today, we will release the Cleansing, and it will clean out all of those who remain loyal to the Federation. All who are corrupt will fall and the structure of the Federation – the Starfleet Academy – will spit out no more tainted fools with greedy hopes for their own futures. At noon today, Doctor, we will change this world. I only need you to tell me who else believes in the corruption of the Federation – who else believes that they _must_ be stopped – and they will be saved. They will be spared the Cleansing, Doctor, but you must tell me."

The Cleansing… something released… the entirety of Starfleet Academy crumbling… Leonard's chest heaved for breath. How? How could she accomplish such a thing? What would the method of her Cleansing be? Would anyone realize what was happening before it was too late?

And thoughts of what he could do swam into his mind and were discarded. He was trapped here, and he had been wrong – Z'hani was mad. Mad with an idea, but not enough to lose the ability to concentrate, to plan, to execute perfection. In fact, her madness probably made her better at it – she was focused, deadly.

And he couldn't tell her that everyone believed the Federation was corrupt. She was mad, not stupid; she'd never fall for such a pathetic attempt at a trick. It was foolish to try, and Leonard could not simply name people off. He would give her names of some of the Admirals if he thought it would help, but if she'd checked into them to see the strength of their loyalty to Starfleet? And what if he did name a bunch of people – students whose names he remembered – what then? He might save a few, but the rest… the rest would die, however she planned for them to do so. He couldn't… he wouldn't…

"I can't."

A hand left his shoulder, caressing his face. Leonard choking on a scream of rage and fear and hatred, jerking away from her but being held still by the strength of her left hand on his shoulder.

"I understand, Doctor. It's so hard to let go of an idea, I know. It took me years to overcome my trust in the Federation – years to come to terms with the fact that they weren't coming for me."

She pulled away suddenly, and he was left bereft of her touch, swaying in the cold. He fell bonelessly against the wall, shuddering, but not from the chill around him.

"But you don't have years, Doctor."

There was a loud _clank_, as something was slammed against the wall of his prison. "The Cleansing will occur at noon, Doctor. You have until then to give me the names of those who trust in my cause. If you tell me nothing before then, I will assume that I was wrong about you – that you trust in the Federation as foolishly as I once did. And when noon arrives, Doctor, you, too, will be Cleansed."

The door in the wall opened again, but this time Leonard shut his eyes quickly, and then allowed them to adjust to the light. "The waters of Nautilon VII are deadly to those of us who dwell within them over the years, Doctor. But for a human, even the mildest of exposure can stop a beating heart."

Leonard looked around him, seeing his prison for the first time. The walls were of a silvery metal, smooth and gleaming in the light, stretching up to some twelve feet above his head. There were no windows, and no openings, other than the door that Z'hani was leaving from, and two vents up near the top of the building. And looking at them, Leonard suddenly knew where he was.

"These water towers haven't been used in centuries, Doctor, but they're still just as effective as they once were. They have been holding water for hundreds of years, and not a single drop has spilled out of them, until we came and released it all. There is fresh water waiting to be put into them, Doctor – fresh from Nautilon VII. We'll be filling these old water towers with the tainted waters of my planet, just as we'll be filling Starfleet's reservoir. You're a doctor. I think you know what will happen when the people of the Federation's breeding ground drink water poisoned with the taint of my planet."

Leonard looked at her, finally. She was standing in the doorway, glaring at her, her tentacles pulled back tightly from her face and her eyes narrowed. "You have until noon to decide where you're loyalties lie, Doctor. Then, you, and all of Starfleet, will die."

The door screamed as it was shut tightly, seamlessly into the wall. Leonard shivered as he was reacquainted with the darkness, only to realize that now, there was some light here. He looked up to see what Z'hani had attached to the wall.

There, hanging across from him, was a clock. Leonard realized suddenly that he could see the numbers displayed there; that he had been able to see when Z'hani had opened the door. The feeling of relief didn't last, however, for although he wasn't blind, the clock gleamed a visual death knell in the color of his own blood.

10:57

Little more than an hour and Z'hani would release a poison into the reservoir of the Academy – a potent death that would kill everyone.

Leonard looked up toward the roof of his prison, but couldn't see the vents for the lack of light. Still, he knew they were there, and he knew that soon, they would release the poisoned water into his cylindrical cell, and he would likely drown before he could die from the poison.

In little more than an hour, his prison would be turned into a cylindrical aquarium.

And Leonard McCoy was a doctor, not a fish.


End file.
